


Reminiscence

by amobisan



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amobisan/pseuds/amobisan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky wondered how their reunion might go before wrapping his hand firmly around himself and settling into an image of how it absolutely _wouldn't._</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminiscence

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note:   
> Porn, as promised!
> 
>  
> 
> The working title of this one was When I Think About You (I Touch Myself), yes, from the Divinyls song. My beta’s got the patience of a saint.

It wasn't right away. It took weeks and weeks after breaking free to be able to touch himself at all. Part of that was how strange his body seemed some days, abruptly so much leaner or more scarred or both than he remembered. A bigger part of it was the bone-deep conviction that they'd punish him for experiencing any pleasure other than that of a completed mission, even if he'd left everyone (everyone he could find) who might have done the punishing in a collection of squishy chunks. Eventually, though, a solid meal with actual flavor didn't scare him, a comfortable bed in a warm room didn't feel like another trap, and his body remembered its needs more than well enough. After enough mornings waking up excited from some of the first non-nightmare dreams he'd had in seventy years, it finally seemed safe to try it, to touch down there a little.

The first few times, he panicked halfway through when it felt too good. The dozen times after that, once he'd obsessively checked all potential sightlines and knew no one would be able to catch him, he finally relaxed enough that he shot off in half a dozen strokes without thinking of anything at all. Apparently sixty years of functional celibacy combined with a bastardized version of the serum made him a goddamn easy touch until he got used to it. Once he did, though, God. He'd started remembering how good jacking off felt back when he was waking up hard but still too scared to do anything about it, but he was fairly sure it was even more intense now, with his senses finer. It took a couple weeks to settle into it, to actually want to devote otherwise productive minutes to the creation of a fantasy to play out instead of getting off as efficiently as possible. He discovered that after a day (or more often several days) without safety or rest as he hunted down HYDRA installations and systematically erased anyone who could threaten him or... or anyone else he wouldn't want threatened, touching himself slow and sweet was a relief, a way to come down from the tension.

The fantasies really weren't much, at first. The thought, the bare notion, of someone else's hand in place of his own. The curl of a rouged mouth opening in laughter or gasp or invitation. After a few months, people he'd seen. He knew he could probably have gotten companionship easily enough, had flickering memories of dozens of dames from the time he always thought of as 'home,' dames and a couple fellas besides. He could probably detach his unusual arm for the evening and charm one of the people he noticed, but any of them could have been an enemy in disguise, a plant to lull him into making himself vulnerable. So he just looked, and remembered them later.

After a while, though, he noticed that whoever he started with, by the end of things there was only ever gold hair and blue eyes and a full mouth in a stubborn pout in his mind, and it was not very long in turn before he stopped trying to convince himself he should think of something else. Didn't hurt anyone, what Bucky thought of when he was alone, and anyway the first time he let himself think of -- of Stevie, his Stevie, all his clothes still on and just smiling fondly at some dumb joke Bucky'd made, it made him come so hard his vision whited out.

That marked the beginning of his getting off to his rapidly-returning memories of Steve. Innocent, all of them, at least at first. His happiest grin. The way his hand looked wrapped around charcoal, brow creased in concentration as he drew. The same hand, nimble and always so oversized-looking before the war, waving in the air as he got excited describing something, his surprisingly-deep voice warm and happy. The feeling of those frail shoulders under Bucky's arm the scant few times Steve'd let Bucky comfort him after his ma passed. Then there were the less upright memories, the ones Bucky wasn't even supposed to have. Sneaking looks at Steve's equally beautiful new body when he was changing clothes in their little London room during leave. The feel of Steve's chest, now so broad and firm, impossibly warm against Bucky's back when they shared blankets on cold nights in the field. Watching with quiet jealousy as Steve looked at Agent Carter like he'd never looked at anyone before, something halfway between terror and adoration. The one time they were in an abandoned house between missions, and all the Commandos each had a bedroom and privacy for the first time in months. Bucky'd thought he might just have heard a breathy gasp and a pair of soft, slick sounds coming from Steve's room, like maybe even the eternally reserved Captain -- the man who never so much as saw to himself in the other room when they'd been living together in Brooklyn, much less took up any Free French girls on their offers -- was in there and had his hand on his -- Yeah. Memories Bucky knew he shouldn't have, and that he treasured all the more every time one came back to him.

Eventually the memories transitioned to things Bucky knew had never happened. He only had maybe seventy percent of his memories back, there were things he wasn't sure of, holes and haze and flashes of red-white agony in between, but he was fairly confident that he'd never actually dared to reach out and cup Stevie's jaw, turn his eyes away from the drawing in his lap and reel him in for a soft, chaste kiss. Steve hadn't ever actually gotten hard against him when they were in the field (as warzones didn't exactly encourage stiffies even when it _wasn't_ hovering five degrees under freezing half the night), and Bucky definitely didn't ever slide a hand back under the cover of their blankets to bring him off from it.

Even once the fantasies featured Steve and in unapologetically carnal scenarios that Bucky was well aware weren't memories, it took a long, long time for Bucky to let himself imagine doing _that_ with Steve, exactly. One of his girlfriends had figured it out, guessed it when she saw exactly how much he liked it when she yanked his hair roughly and got demanding, ordered him to make it good, and she'd had some real tricks to show him. He only imagined it guiltily at first, the thought of Steve pinning him to the bed one night they were on leave in that tiny London hostel, only needing one hand to trap Bucky's wrists easily as his enhanced strength kept Bucky helpless under Steve's touches. Or Steve ordering him to lay down on the bed they'd shared for years in their perpetually-freezing apartment, tying Bucky's hands over his head to the plain, scuffed wooden headboard and teasing Bucky until he begged Steve to please do anything, anything he wanted if he'd just promise to finally _fuck_ Bucky once he had. He saw Steve's hands, always so big whether delicate or strong, leaving gorgeous bruises up the insides of Bucky's thighs while he begged for more. It was nothing at all like what had happened after, like the monsters Bucky was hunting down now. It was good and perfect because Steve gave him exactly what he wanted, what he needed, and told Bucky he loved him afterwards. That was the part that would always get him off without fail. Even if the rest wasn't quite enough, all Bucky had to do was imagine Steve's arms wrapping around him as they settled in the afterglow, Steve kissing him gently before murmuring "I love you, Buck." Did it every time.

By the time Bucky could stand picturing anything that involved his new body, longer hair and scars and metal arm and all, he was spending less and less of his time hunting down the HYDRA cells he could remember, which was most of them, it seemed. He probably had something like ninety percent of his memories back, everything other than a couple very murky years in the eighties and one stubborn month in 1937 that, judging by what he could recall both before and after, had absolutely nothing interesting happen in it. More and more, he was spending his time dodging Steve's increasingly effective search tactics as he chased Bucky across continents, trying to bring him to ground while Bucky finished wiping what he could of HYDRA off the face the Earth. Bucky lay down in his stolen bed in Cuzco, having finished his latest round of security checks, and closed his eyes as he shoved his shirt halfway up and eased his zipper down but left his pants on. He'd have to leave town tonight in any case, so no point stripping when he might have to bug out early. He certainly _could_ fight naked, but it made the aftermath awkward, and people in the next town generally found a pantsless man inconveniently memorable. There were a few hours to kill while Steve and his sidekick followed the false trail far enough to give Bucky the breathing room to skip town smoothly, and it was good to relax from the breathless, half-sexual tension of Steve being so dangerously close to catching him. He let his mind wander a bit before returning to the thought that had plagued him more and more in recent weeks. Maybe it was nearly time to let Steve capture him, to submit to whatever punishment Steve thought merited by the blood on Bucky's hands.

Bucky wondered how their reunion might go before settling into an image of how it absolutely _wouldn't_. He knew perfectly well there would be no hero's welcome waiting for him anywhere in this world or the next; there was no place for him in Steve's life at all, much less in his bed. He let himself see it anyway, see himself standing gazing out the mostly-shuttered window when there'd be a little flicker of motion in the glass and the feeling of big, strong hands grabbing his wrists and pulling them behind his back. He'd have smelled Stevie already, that scent that hasn't changed since Steve hit puberty. He was spice and summer wind, overlaid with the leather of his jacket and smoke from his motorcycle like when they were in the field together all those years ago, now tinged with modern soap besides and so clearly telling Bucky to stand down, not to ever, ever hurt the man approaching him. He slid his flesh hand into his opened fly as he pictured Steve securing Bucky's wrists with his left hand even as he stepped closer, pressing against Bucky's back and bending to murmur in that sure, unchangingly deep voice "Bucky. It's time you came home. I miss you." Even the _thought_ of Steve ever saying that to him, ever forgiving him his sins enough to welcome Bucky back into his life so freely, was enough to make Bucky shiver as he stroked his cock to full hardness.

The Steve in his mind moved just the bare inch needed to brush his lips against Bucky's ear, provoking another shiver. Bucky would tug on the restraining grip once, twice, just to feel how thoroughly Steve had him prisoner before going pliant, eyes lowering from the window to contemplate the floor and the strength of Steve's stance, seeking and discarding potential escape plans rapidly. Steve would know, had always been able to tell when Bucky was plotting wickedness even when they were boys, and would bury his free hand in Bucky's long hair and jerk his head up. "C'mon, Buck. You know I don't want to have to hurt you," he'd say, and release Bucky's hair just long enough to snap the mag-cuffs onto Bucky's wrists, and fuck, with his metal arm there's no way he'd able to slip or break them. His hand would return to Bucky's hair, then, gentler, almost petting as he'd add "Be a good boy," in the lower, intimate tone Bucky had only ever imagined. Steve'd rock up against him, then, letting Bucky just barely feel his erection before pulling away completely and saying in his Captain voice "You're not gonna put up a fuss, now, are you?" Bucky's hand sped on his cock as he pictured turning, sweeping Steve's legs easily (punk was always too trusting, and never really learned how to keep a properly balanced stance out of active combat besides), but with his arms bound so solidly behind his back being unable to follow through properly and ending up tackled to the bed, Steve's weight trapping him no matter how he tried to squirm. He'd rock back into the now-very-obvious hard on grinding against his ass just to draw out Stevie's surprised little gasp and get a little friction for himself up against the mattress. "Buck?" Steve'd ask in that darkly aroused voice, left hand burying in Bucky's hair this time so he'd be free to explore a little with his right. Maybe he'd stroke along Bucky's side and hip, still almost-ticklishly sensitive, ghost his fingers down Bucky's heaving chest as he panted and rolled his hips forward and back in fruitless pursuit of stimulation. Maybe, mmhm, maybe Steve'd even shift to the side just enough to smack Bucky's ass and thighs as punishment for fighting him, for trying to escape.

In the dingy motel in Cuzco, Bucky's hips were rolling too, pushing his cock harder into his fist as he worked himself up, painted the picture even as pleasure began pooling ever so slowly in his belly. Steve'd probably be able to smell the precome, after a bit, Bucky guessed. He always leaked a little these days, even when he hadn't been going all that long, and if Steve'd actually spanked him a little there'd be no doubt of the mess Bucky would be making. Steve'd smell it, and that might just spur him into daring to ease his hand down there, slide between Bucky and the bed and feel just how hard he was. He'd be shocked, of course, but in the safety of the fantasy Steve was excited by Bucky's answering desire, not disgusted at Bucky for wanting Steve that way at all and _doubly_ so for being so eager from getting hit. He'd flip Bucky over, leaving his bound arms trapped safely under his own body weight, to rub his broad palm over the very obvious bulge in Bucky's pants and whisper "You want me to do it, don't you? You're that kind of whore?" And Bucky would nod rapidly, eager as ever to give Steve anything he wanted, everything it was in Bucky's power to provide. Steve would kiss him, then, even while opening first Bucky's, then his own pants and lining them up purely by feel because they were too busy kissing, finally kissing, to spare so much as a glance downwards. One of Steve's big, perfect hands would wrap around them both as the other returned to Bucky's hair, guiding him to bare his throat for Steve to kiss and nibble and mark with wine-dark bruises so everyone could see his claim, his ownership of Bucky. Bucky's hand moved sure and quick in the same rhythm as his imaginary Steve's as he thrust up eagerly, and all it took was to conjure Steve's voice murmuring "I love you so much, Buck. Come for me," to send Bucky over the edge, grabbing at the bed so hard there was a clunk audible even over his own hoarse scream of Steve's name.

Bucky'd only barely released his prick and was still riding out the last of the aftershocks when he clunk repeated. No longer distracted by orgasming, he immediately realized it was _not_ coming from his bed but rather from just outside the window. He already had a knife in hand in the few seconds it took to think that really, that clunk-ting sound was awfully familiar, and he'd just finished closing his pants over the mess on his stomach while he took a defensible position when the reinforced door (because while the decor here was run-down, the security measures definitely weren't) burst from its equally reinforced frame. His spare knife, thrown lightning-fast as ever, clanged off something metal and no, he _knew_  that sound -- and then Steve was standing right there in the open doorway, his blackened shield raised. There were scuffs all through the hasty paint job, showing flashes of red, white, and blue underneath the matte black, though Steve himself was just wearing dark jeans and a black button-down rather than the costume, and fuck if he wasn't the best thing Bucky had ever, ever seen.

There was an extremely brief but intensely awkward moment during which Bucky made peace with the fact that Steve would definitely be able to smell exactly what he'd been doing, and as a lesser concern, he had Bucky trapped between himself and Falcon and would be taking Bucky in. In that tiny pause, Steve seemed to realize that Bucky wasn't throwing more knives at him, and untucked from the shield. He glanced around the room and seemed confused before looking at Bucky and asking "Buck? Are you okay? I heard you scream my name, I thought you were in troub..." His nose twitched as he sniffed, blinked, and looked even more confused.

Bucky felt himself blush, which he hadn't known he could still do, and looked down before saying "Uh. Mind if I clean up before you cuff me and drag me off to some dark hole somewhere? It's gonna start itching fairly soon." 

Steve's answering flush was as incandescent on his fair cheeks as ever, but he only said "We aren't dragging you anywhere, Bucky. We figured out you were taking HYDRA down months ago. We've just been trying to stay close enough to back you up and make sure civilians and local law enforcement stayed well out of the way. You can, um, do whatever you want. But I'd like it if you came home to me. Uh, with me, um, that is, uh, I mean, with us. The Avengers. Would like you join up." Captain America, all six feet of gorgeous, brave, patriotic legend incarnate, ended his halting sentence with his eyes locked on the floor, face still flushed and huh, his posture was all but shouting non-aggression but his shield was still held mostly in front of him, low and relaxed. Bucky could almost believe he meant it, but no, there was that same note in his voice he'd had when he was nine and trying to pretend he hadn't gotten Bucky a birthday present, that hiding-something edge. It was too good to be true, anyway. A man as good as Steve would never be able to overlook or forgive the things they'd made their Soldier do.

Bucky took the respite offered, though, and picked up a towel (slowly, telegraphing the action clearly so Steve wouldn't feel threatened), dampened it in the leaky sink, and opened his pants to wipe off the mess. Once he was as clean as he was going to get without a shower or stealing a new pair of pants, he looked up to find Steve's gaze fixed on the planes of Bucky's bared stomach and the vee of his open fly. Bucky ran the towel down over his cock one more time just to confirm, and sure enough Steve's eyes tracked the movement without so much as blinking, and could he, maybe, was there a chance...? Steve seemed to abruptly notice Bucky's attention and immediately looked away, clearly hoping Bucky hadn't caught quite where he'd been looking. Bucky asked him "And what're you hiding? I've been able to spot your 'innocent' voice since you were convincing Sister Agnes that no, ma'am, 'course I ain't drawing comics in my sketchbook 'stead of doing my math homework, that'd be wrong." Stevie's look of pure joy at the casually-referenced memory was entirely too dazzling and made something deep inside Bucky ache to go along with him, whatever it cost.

"Not hiding anything, Buck. Nothing's changed," and Bucky could almost believe him. But he knew too well that there were consequences for the kinds of things he'd done, for the kind of person they'd made him into. He was almost grateful to Steve for trying to make it hurt less. He looked down briefly, finished settling his clothing, and stepped in close, offering his wrists up wordlessly.

Steve wrapped his hands around each, stroking softly and fuck, that felt good, but only said "I'm not trying to trick you, Bucky. I'm not going to cuff you or hit you or make you do anything you don't want to. It has to be your choice to come back, when you're --" his voice broke for a deep, almost shaky breath "-- when you're ready. Whenever you're ready. We'll watch your back until you are." His eyes were wide, shining, impossibly blue, and Bucky wanted nothing more than to give in, to go with him even if it was a lie, just for the chance that his guess could be true, that Steve might want him too. But --

"There's still work to do, Stevie,"  Bucky said quietly. The part of him that was always calculating force vectors and exit routes pointed out that this could be an excellent test of their intentions -- if they truly let him go after having him dead-to-rights like this, it was a strong indicator of the sincerity of their offer of membership. A home. Maybe even... forgiveness. "But... after?"

Steve leaned in close, and released Bucky's left wrist -- the more dangerous by far, a compelling show of trust when standing so entirely within its effective range -- and raised his hand to cup Bucky's cheek gently. Bucky froze, confused, as Steve gazed into his eyes, visibly nervous, before ducking in and pressing a soft, barely-there kiss to Bucky's lips before confirming "Whenever you're ready. I'll be waiting."

He stepped back, releasing Bucky's other wrist and walking quickly back down the hall and out of the little motel entirely, leaving Bucky standing frozen in the doorway. Four more targets, infinitely easier to hit now that he wouldn't be trying to shake his persistent blond tail. Four more HYDRA bases to wipe out, and perhaps erase a measure of his own guilt with them. And then, maybe, he'd be able to go home and get a chance at earning that welcome, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, guys, this might be the last monthly post for a little while. Grad school's kinda kicking my butt. I've got a couple pieces in the works, though, so we'll see if the muse is kind between here and the end of March.


End file.
